Immunity
by mumbling mice
Summary: London has been overrun by zombies. Sherlock is no longer bored. Rated T for graphic violence and... other adult themes that may manifest themselves later on.
1. The Begininng

_John_

_The inevitable has happened at last. _

_Come to 221B immediately if not dead._

_SH_

"Immediately?" I laughed breathlessly. I had been trapped in the toilet, crouched on top of the pot, for probably about ten minutes, trying to avoid a pair of groping, blood-stained hands trying to grab my pant leg under the door. I wasn't going to be running around London anytime soon if the rest of the city was like this.

I attempted kicking one of the snatching hands, but it got a good grip on my shoe and pulled. I slipped from the toilet onto the floor. My cell phone flew out of my hand and, predictably, landed with a _plop_ in the toilet, just as it started beeping again.

"Hold on, Sherlock," I grumbled, gritting my teeth and shaking myself loose from the deranged man's grip. It was a tight space, but I had enough room to back up to the wall and not be touched.

Normally, in this situation, I would spend a considerable amount of time weighing the pros and cons of sticking my hand into a public toilet to retrieve a perfectly replaceable device. This time, however, I had no hesitations rolling up my sleeve and reaching in.

I was surprised by the fact that it still worked.

_PS_

_Feel free to kill them, soldier._

_They're zombies._

_SH_

"Zombies?" I read out loud. The man who had me trapped in here (whom I know took for as one of the numerous undead) groaned in a most frightening way, as if on cue. Zombies were gimmicky, cannibalistic fairy tales of gory horror flicks and crap video games. Not exactly the sort of thing I would have ever expected Sherlock to tolerate, let alone consider the "inevitable". He's so rational that he probably brushed off the notion of Santa Claus at the age of three. He probably has little patience for the most trivial, innocent superstitions in existence.

With that in mind, if Sherlock Holmes claims there are zombies in London, there truly must be zombies in London.

I began by swiftly crushing my opponent's fingers with my shoe; they were surprisingly brittle and snapped off like pretzel sticks. Syrupy black blood oozed out; it looked almost congealed. I undid my belt, and kicked down the door with as much force as I could muster. I swung the belt across the zombie's face, buckle facing out. This stunned the creature, and gave me time to knock it to the ground and crush its skull with a satisfying crunch.

When I knew it was dead, I staggered over to the sink and ran the water, panting heavily. The zombie had been a patient of mine. There had been reports all day of an unknown virus, similar to rabies, which caused extreme mania. Symptoms to be aware of were nausea, vomiting, high fever, disorientation, hallucination, and inexplicable bleeding from orifices such as the nose, ears, anus, and genitals. This patient was brought in by his wife, who claimed he was getting worse and worse by the minute, which I found to be quite true. He came in feeling sick to his stomach, bleeding from his ears, and lapsing in and out of awareness. I suspected it may have been this mystery infection. When he threw up on the floor and started to convulse, I shouted for a nurse, someone, anyone, but no one came. I ran down the hall, to Sarah's office, but she wasn't there, even though she had been when I arrived.

Behind me I heard a frustrated scream, and turned to see my patient lunging toward me with dull, lifeless eyes and bleeding gums. I ran from it into the toilet, locked myself in a stall, and received a text from Sherlock Holmes ten minutes later.

He _would_ be texting during a zombie outbreak.

I got on more text while I was splashing cold water on my face, the adrenaline still working its way through my system.

_PPS_

_Don't get bitten._

_SH_

The rest of the floor was surprisingly empty. Something must have happened while I was treating my patient that caused everyone to clear out, because I noticed the entire supply closet had been littered on the ground, as if a wild beast had flung everything off of its shelves. I did hear some shuffling down the hall, but decided to ignore it. Hopefully it wouldn't smell me, or whatever they do.

In my office I grabbed the only two things I could possibly see as being weapons—a letter opener and my cane. My gun was back at Baker Street, but if that was the case, at least Sherlock would have something to defend himself with.


	2. Coming Home

My pocket was beeping again. It was nice to know that Sherlock was still alive and able to use his thumbs, but I had more important things on my mind. The most important being the fact that I was weaving a flaming ambulance throughout multitudes of the swarming undead.

The ambulance had been parked outside of the building where a worked. At first I found this strange, because normally ambulances took the people they picked up to the hospitals. Then I realized that, what with the crisis going on, the hospitals were probably overflowing and the ambulance driver at loss where to go.

It was also entirely possible that his judgment was impaired, seeing as he had been turned into a zombie. I whacked him in the face with my cane and then used it to drag his unconscious body out of the driver's seat. I then hopped in and began to drive.

I had not realized the siren would start up. Apparently zombies are attracted to loud, high-pitched noises. I simultaneously swerved through the street and searched for some sort of off button. It turned out to be a small key on the dashboard. I twisted it, and the wailing let up immediately. The undead, however, did not.

There were so many parked and abandoned cars littering the streets that I found it difficult to both avoid crashing into these cars and not running over a few spare infected along the way. A pang of guilt nagged my chest when I thought it was possible some of the people who became my speed bumps may have in fact still been alive.

But there was no time to dwell on that.

I had found a back road that was pretty empty compared to the rest of the city, and slowed down my speed a bit. I needed to calm down. If I wanted to get back to 221B Baker Street alive, I couldn't get myself in an accident trying to avoid these things. That would be hopelessly ironic.

Just as I was just catching my breath, I heard a guttural, chilling groan in my ear. Apparently, whoever the ambulance driver had picked was still waiting to be dropped off.

I cried out in alarm and elbowed the zombie squarely in the nose.

I had a few short seconds to think of what to do. I couldn't stop driving, so trying to stab him with the later opener or whack him with the cane was out of the question, it would be too distracting. What did I have on my immediate person? What could I do?

Suddenly, it hit me. I had borrowed Sherlock's jacket that morning, because he had spilled formaldehyde on the one I was planning on wearing. He had also taken up smoking again.

I reached into the pocket and, sure enough, found his lighter. I flicked it on, chucked it over my shoulder, and was surprised out how quickly the back of the van was engulfed in flames.

The zombie let out a pained, high-pitched squeal and the smell of its burning flesh made me gag and cover my nose. It was certainly dead. I glanced behind me.

I was driving an ambulance truck that was on fire.

And then, as if on cue, Sherlock texted me. The beeping caught me off guard, and I swerved. The ambulance truck collided into a car parked diagonally across the road and I was jostled in my seat from the force. Smoke was billowing up into the air from the engine and the smell of burning tires was thick in the air.

A flaming car with a busted engine did not sound particularly safe. I was better off dealing with the zombies. I jumped out of the car, brandishing my cane like a katana.

My phone beeped again.

"Dammit, Sherlock, this is not the time!" I burst out, busting the skull of a zombie chav who was limping towards me.

"Sorry, should I have waited?"

That was Sherlock's voice. That was most definitely Sherlock's voice. I spun around wildly, trying to find where he was. Could he be down here with me? How could I not have seen him?

"Up here."

I looked up and saw him smirking down at me through an open window.

The open window of our apartment.

I was on Baker Street. I hadn't even realized.

"You never texted me back!" he shouted. His elbows were propped up on the sill and his chin on his fists, surveying the commotion below him with his usual scrutinizing expression.

"I was kind of busy!" I replied incredulously.

"There's a zombie behind you."

I got it in the groin with my cane. Another place that was surprisingly tender. "Are you going to come down and help me or just sit there and watch?"

"I think I'll just watch. Not really in the mood to spill any blood."

"You're a prick, you know that?"

"So I've been told. There's another one behind you. She's ridiculously fat."

She _was_ ridiculously fat, the type of fat that makes us doctors feel like we've failed in some way; the kind of fat that requires one of those scooters in the grocery store. Her hair was a ratty blonde mess and black bile stained the corners of her mouth. She waddled toward me and seemed as if she was about to vomit. I'd had enough of that in one day.

I kicked her away and she toppled over on her back. She struggled to get up, much like a turtle, just kicking her legs and rocking back and forth.

"You better come up quick," Sherlock said as I stabbed an infected mailman in the shoulder. "I've put some tea on, it's just started whistling. Would you like Earl Grey or English Breakfast?"


	3. So, What Did You Do Today?

I found him sitting on the floor in the kitchen. The sink was piled with pots and pans because I was too busy to bother with them and he was too lazy to care.

His back was against the stove, where a kettle sat, plump with slowly cooling water. He was resting his bowl of tea on his kneecaps and blowing into it, cooling it with his breath. Since we didn't have any proper teacups that were clean, he was drinking his tea in a soup bowl.

I dropped my blood-splattered cane and dropped to my knees beside him.

"I could throttle you right now," I told him breathlessly.

"Have some tea," he replied.

"I don't want any bloody tea!"

"Fair enough."

We sat next to each other for several incredibly silent moments, save for Sherlock's very loud slurping. There was so much to say, and yet I couldn't possibly imagine where to start. I had some many questions, so many worried thoughts… but I was almost afraid to ask.

"Is the… is the telly working?" I decided that was a safe enough question.

"Doubt it. Although it was this morning," he said into the bowl. "Every channel was either bumbling news anchors or snow."

"Did they have anything of use to say?" I asked, hoping there was possibly reports of an evacuation or some kind of cure.

"Does the news ever have something useful to say?" he answered.

"Sometimes."

"Rarely." He cleared his throat and took another sip of tea. "So, why were you driving a burning ambulance?"

"Guess," I told him, thinking I test his wits under the given circumstances.

He looked at me awhile in his mysterious, calculating way, and lunged forward and groped in the pockets of my (his) jacket. "Don't get excited," he warned me. He withdrew his hand holding nothing. "There was a zombie in the back of an ambulance and to get rid of it you set the back on fire."

"And how did you figure that out?"

"Seeing as this is an epidemic," he began. "Obviously an ambulance truck would have picked up someone who was infected. Even though the driver was gone—"

"I killed it."

"Gone, nonetheless," he brushed me off. "The passenger was still in the back. So, like a fool, you got into the truck without bothering to check the back and began to drive. While driving, you realized the zombie was in the back. However, you couldn't pull over and kill it with your cane because of the multitude of zombies gaining on you, you remembered the fact that you were wearing my jacket, the fact that there would be a lighter in the jacket, and chucked it behind you. Quick thinking. I'd admire it if your carelessness hadn't caused it in the first place."

"Extraordinary," I whispered.

He grinned. "You must stop making a habit of complimenting me, John. I'll get an over-inflated ego."

"Oh, I could _never_ imagine you ever being _egotistical_, Sherlock," I laughed, rising. "Well, I'm going to take a bath. Maybe after then you could put the kettle back on—"

"I suggest you don't go in there," he called to me as I started towards the door.

"Why not?"

There was sudden, stomach-turning noise that arose from within the bathroom. It sounded as if nails were being dragged down the entire length of the door in a completely unmerciful way. I looked back to Sherlock for an explanation.

"Mrs. Hudson is in there."


	4. Euthanasia

Mrs. Hudson—or at least, what was once Mrs. Hudson but is now a brain-eating monster—sounded as if she was thumping her head against the towel rack. Every metallic clang made me cringe. Sherlock sat, unmoving, suspended in thought and silence. He was as still as a photograph, caught in one simple moment; yet I knew that his mind was hitting every switch on trying to come up with something. I knew by the way his eyes flickered around the room that, although he was so quiet and so still, his thoughts were a cacophony of approximations.

I had given up trying to think of the most humane way to handle the situation. Sherlock had argued with me about it, insisting that I be the one to shoot her because I had experience with it.

"Obviously," he told me then, still not having finished his tea. "You're the better choice. You're a better shot than me, you have better reflexes, and this is certainly something you've dealt with before."

"You're completely right," I answered. "And that's why I don't want to do it."

"I don't see why not."

For someone so utterly brilliant, so astounding astute, it was a shame he could be so stupid sometimes.

He did catch his mistake quickly enough, though.

"Sorry," he said. "That… wasn't good, was it?"

"No, Sherlock. It wasn't good." I cleared my throat.

"Well, if you won't do it then we'll have to think of something else."

"Why can't you do it?" I knew he'd handled a gun before.

"I'm a terrible shot," he told me nonchalantly.

"You're also a terrible liar," I retorted, gesturing to the gunshot-smiley face he so lovingly decided to decorate our wall with. "Do you honestly think I'm that thick?"

"Of course not. You're a Doctor. I just meant that—"

"Look, if you don't want to do it, that's fine, you could have just—"

"I never said I didn't want to do it, I said that I was—"

"You're just making excuses; I know you cared for her just as much as I did, _at least_—"

"John," he shouted. "Regardless of what I meant, there is an infected woman in our bathroom whom neither of us wants to shoot!"

We then sat in silence, listening to her banging her head against the towel rack. His mind was scrambling, checking every file of information it had stored, and mine was completely blank, merely watching him dully and wishing it had an inkling of that intuition.

"We'll just lure her out of the apartment," he finally said, his voice cracking a bit. "Judging by the fact that a lot of the severe symptoms they exhibited before turning have remained, it's likely that they eventually die on their own after a short period of time. John, I want you to go to the freezer and look for a small, white package on the second shelf."

I heaved myself up and dragged my feet to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a small white package on the second shelf of the freezer.

"What is it?" I asked, handling it suspiciously.

"A brain fragment."

I opened my mouth to protest, argue, something, ask where it was from, at least comment on the fact that it was sitting on top of the ice cream, but I honestly didn't have the energy. I just tossed it to him and sat back down.

"We'll place it on the edge of the window. When she gets close enough, we'll push her out. If the fall doesn't kill her, the disease eventually will."

"Fine. Brilliant. Let's hope it works." I stood up.

"Although," he said, observing the parcel. "It's frozen. If we want her to smell, we'll have to heat it up a bit. What do you think, John? Microwave, toaster oven, or just boil it?"


	5. The Smell of Brain

I'd never thought I'd be microwaving a brain. Then again, I never though I'd be in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. And, for that matter, I never though I'd be toughing it out with Sherlock Holmes.

Waiting for things to finish up being microwaved has always been a pain. You sit there and stare at it and try to occupy yourself somehow, but it just won't go fast enough. That's exactly how I felt as we waited for the brain to warm up, except, well, this wasn't just a cup of Instant Ramen.

"Oow, it's bubbling," Sherlock gleefully announced, snapping me out of the daze I had fallen into as I watched infected victims stumble outside through the window. He yanked open the microwave door and gingerly grabbed the plate with an oven mitt. The pinkish slice sizzled on the plate and for some sick, godforsaken reason, almost made me hungry, but that was probably because I hadn't eaten anything since that morning.

The strong smell permeated the air and no doubt must have wafted underneath the bathroom door, because Mrs. Hudson—or rather, what _had_ _been_ Mrs. Hudson, wildly clawed at the door and screamed almost immediately after Sherlock took the brain out of the microwave.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked me, but I was already ahead of him. I had opened the window, popped the screen out, and patiently waited for him to carry over the plate. Done below, the other zombies smelled the brain, because several jerked their heads to our apartment and I swear I thought I saw one lick his lips.

"I'm going to open the door," Sherlock warned me. His hand, still in the oven mitt, hovered over the doorknob. "When she comes out, she'll run to the window for the brain. When she reaches the window, we'll both push her out."

"I hope you've still got my gun on you," I said to him. "You know, just in case she goes for one of us."

"We're not going to shoot her," Sherlock told me darkly.

"But what if—"

"On the count of three!" Sherlock shouted. "One, two—"

The door flew open.

"Three!"


	6. The Creature That Was Not Mrs Hudson

The thing that emerged from the bathroom was not Mrs. Hudson. It was not our landlady in any respect whatsoever. In fact, it was unlike anything I had ever seen before in my life.

Its eyes were fevered, feral, and sickeningly yellow. They took a moment to stop short and survey their surroundings, but they never stopped twitching, never stopped looking. Black bile dripped from its gaping hole of a mouth. Out from that dark cavern gurgled an unmistakable shriek of attack. I realized that the deranged eyes were looking at me.

I fumbled for my gun hurriedly, but, no, I didn't have my gun! I was an idiot and hadn't even grabbed a weapon. There was nothing I could use.

This was it, then. This was how I was to die. So many times had I experienced this still, immediate feeling of looming death, but this one was unlike the others—it was so unexpected, so undignified, so dirty and confusing and horrid.

I stood there with my eyes squeezed shut, saying my prayers and awaiting zombification, when my body jerked in reaction to the loud bang that rang in my ears.

I slowly opened my eyes. That evil creature, that beast that replaced Mrs. Hudson, was writhing at me feet, hissing in agony. Sticky black blood oozed from a wound on its arm.

There was another bang—a bullet pierced the zombie's skull. It stopped moving.

Sherlock was looking at the corpse; quizzical eyes, nostrils flared. As usual, it was difficult to determine his emotion. I glanced down at the body. Upon closer inspection, I noticed nauseating resemblances to Mrs. Hudson. Beneath the blood that seeped from its ears was the shape of her pearl earrings. The chipped nails still retained a purplish hue. I knew Sherlock could see it.

He flung the gun against the wall. I thanked God it didn't go off.


	7. By The Way

I had grown accustomed to sleeping through things that would normally keep people awake, rocking back in forth in their beds. I learned to sleep through the sounds of distant bombs. I snored past the knowledge that men who were once so tangible and alive bled to death in a foreign land. I drifted off knowing very well that I could be next.

But that first night, I barely slept. I just couldn't. I would have willingly chose gunfire over the grunts of zombies any day. I would rather the dead body of a fellow in arms than the dead body of Mrs. Hudson. War was something I was used to. This wasn't.

I had periods of short unconsciousness in which I had vivid, frightening dreams, but that wasn't sleep. Finally, around five in the morning, I got sick of trying to sleep and wandered from my bedroom into the kitchen. I hadn't eaten in a long time.

The only light on was the dim bulb that hovered in the middle of the ceiling.

Sherlock was there, sitting at the cluttered table. His thumbs were busily attacking his cell phone.

"I assume you didn't sleep well," he said, not looking up.

"No. Not really," I yawned, slumping down in the chair across from him. "You?"

"I didn't even bother trying." He sent his text and looked up at me. In the soft light I could see the dark circles underneath his eyes.

"Who did you text?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered dryly, tucking his phone into his pocket. "He texted me first. I was disappointed to learn he was still alive, but not surprised. No doubt he has a special bunker hidden away in the mountains of Antarctica commissioned specifically for zombie-related disasters."

"What did he have to say, then?"

"'_Dear baby brother, I do hope you're still alive. Mummy will throw a fit if you've gotten yourself killed. Take care, Mycroft._'"

"Well, it's good he's doing well."

I could not distinguish whether the look Sherlock threw me was disbelief of disgust.

"I'm furious that in light of what's going on, that's all he could be bothered to say," he growled, standing up from the chair. "I mean, we're in the middle of a bloody zombie apocalypse and all he can say to me is 'I hope you're still alive'. He could have at least _lied_ and told me there were scientists still alive and looking for a cure!"

"Or," I ventured, "Maybe he cares about your well being and wants to check if you're alright before bombarding you with news."

"Whatever," he scoffed, waving his hand. He slinked over to the couch in the living room and collapsed into it. "Oh," he added lazily. "I should probably tell you this before I forget. I think I'm immune."

"What? To the disease?"

"No, to syphilis. Yes, of course, to the disease."

"How do you know?"

"Well, when people are bitten they almost immediately begin to turn. I observed this through the window and with, er, Mrs. Hudson. It probably took about three minutes to begin. They start by getting violently ill and gradually lose their sanity. The whole process is roughly forty-five minutes. While detaining Mrs. Hudson, she bit me on the arm. I expected to turn immediately and took my time deciding whether or not to kill myself so you wouldn't have to deal with me if you returned back to the apartment. However, after awhile I realized I took more time making this decision than the time it took to turn. To be sure I waited another hour; nothing. Therefore, I am immune."

"Let me see the wound," I demanded, springing up from the chair and bounding over to him.

He didn't bother getting up from the couch, and instead merely held out his arm and expected me to pull down his sleeve.

The wound was most certainly teeth marks, and seemed to be healing at an alarming rate, considering he had just received it yesterday.

"So that's how it's spread, then? Biting?"

"From what I've observed," he answered.

I thought back to the office, where the patients came to me, bleeding from the ears and vomiting. The symptoms must have just begun for them. The amount of time made sense.

"Alright," I said after a short moment of thought. "It's my turn to do experiments, then."


	8. Irrational Fear From a Rational Mind

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a cowardly man. Few things frightened him. I suppose it's because fear often comes from irrational thinking, and I doubt Sherlock ever had an irrational thought in his life.

He spends his free time surrounded by mutilated corpses. I'd seen him pick up tarantulas and place them on his shoulder like a parrot. For God's sake, the man nearly popped a possibly life-threatening pill at the bidding of a psychopath just to prove a point.

For a long time it seemed as if _Sherlock Holmes_ and _Fear_ were to incompatible components.

That's why it came as a shock to learn he was deathly terrified of needles.

When I learned he was possibly immune, my first instinct was to observe a sample of his blood. It would be easy enough; we had all sorts of unnecessary scientific and medical equipment cluttered around the flat.

I expected it to be simple enough. While he was playing what sounded like _Bohemian Rhapsody _on his violin in the other room, I soaked a syringe in boiling water and scrubbed the microscope (which had something disturbingly green and fuzzy growing on the lens).

"Sherlock? Can you come in here for a moment?" I called to him as I yanked on a pair of latex gloves.

He tiptoed into the kitchen suspiciously, still clutching his violin and bow. He could tell I was up to something.

"You're up to something," he observed.

"I thought we could run a few tests," I answered.

"A man after my own heart," he set the violin and bow aside. "So, on the subject of zombies, what are we to do with the corpse in the other room?"

My stomach sunk. The two of us had avoided going near her for the past day and a half, neither wanting her there but neither wanting to do anything about it. But she did have to leave eventually—she was starting to stink.

"We should get a few samples from her before we get rid of her, though," I told him, thinking that it might be wise to take advantage of what we had.

"Don't say _her_," Sherlock snapped. "That thing was not a _her_. That was not Mrs. Hudson. Well, _physically_ it was, but mania and disease had overpowered her original personality and being and—well—you know what I mean." He cleared his throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean," I nodded.

"But go on with what you were saying. About running tests."

"What? Oh, yes, that." I reached into the pot and pulled out the sterilized syringe. "I'll need a blood sample."

He eyed me cautiously. "And where do you plan on getting this blood sample?" he asked.

"From you." The moment the words slipped from my lips I realized getting a blood sample from Sherlock would be harder than giving a cat a bath.

Sherlock snatched a frying pan from the kitchen table and scrambled up on the chair. "John, I highly suggest not come near me with that bloody thing if you don't want a concussion."

"Sherlock, are you kidding me? It's just a _needle_, babies get blood drawn all the time—"

"That doesn't make it okay!"

"Think rationally!" I urged him. "That's what you _do_, isn't it?"

"I am thinking rationally!" He exclaimed, still wielding the frying pan like a machete. "My thought process is '_There is a pointy thing dangerously close to being shoved in my skin—that is something undesirable. I will try to avoid it_'! Quite bloody rational thinking if you ask me!"

"So what, then?" I sighed. "You'd rather be a selfish prick and protect yourself then suffer a bit for the sake of research?"

He lowered the frying pan by a margin.

Seeing that I was beginning to sway him, I continued, "By doing this, it's entirely possible we can make more than one of us immune. That is to say, we can possibly find a cure."

He slowly climbed down from the chair.

"So what do you say?" I asked.

He sighed. "Fine.

A/N: I expected this to happen. I've been asked a few times why Sherlock would be afraid of needles if he formerly used to use recreational drugs. Well, it's simple; not all drugs are administered via needle. The television program doesn't ever specify what he was on, and in the books it's implied he was on cocaine. Therefore, no needles involved.


	9. Ugh, Hygiene!

"Good God, Sherlock, it's just a needle," I sighed.

I was crouching by the edge of the bathtub, holding the empty syringe and waiting for Sherlock to stop acting like a child. You know how, in the corner of your tub, there's usually that little space that's wider than the rest of the edges, so you can put your shampoo there? He was on his tiptoes, balancing in that tiny little gap, and clinging to the showerhead. He looked like a tarantula in a dollhouse, with his spindly limbs and black jacket. He just didn't fit.

"Yes. Yes, John, I am well aware that it is a needle."

"Honestly, Sherlock. Why are you so petrified by them? It's the tiniest pinprick, look, I'll do it to myself—"

"NO!" He bellowed, jumping down to ground level. "That's the last thing I want to see. Just—just put it away, I don't even want to _look_ at it."

"I'm not putting it away, Sherlock, we _have_ to do this—"

"Why does it have to be a _needle_, though?" He inquired in frustration. "Why can't you just slice my arm with a knife and take the blood that way?"

"Like that's any better!" I scoffed.

"It is—it's much better! I'd rather a big long wound than a long, thin piece of whatever going into my vein—Christ, I can't even _think_ about it—"

"That's completely unhygienic!" I couldn't believe we were arguing about this.

"Ugh, hygiene, who needs hygiene?" He groaned, putting his face in his hands.

"Um, well, just _the entire bloody city of London_!" I yelled. Enough of this childish behavior. "Dammit, Sherlock, so help me God: You do this right now, or I'll—I'll—"

"You'll what?" He lifted his face.

"I'll—I'll do something very bad," I stammered. "That you won't like."

"Such as?"

"I'll… throw your violin out the window. And let the zombies eat it."

He studied me for a moment, unflinchingly, in that curious way he does. "No you won't," he concluded after a moment of observation. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, really?" I challenged him, standing up. "Will you take me up on that?"

"Of course not. Because you won't. You wouldn't."

"_Oh. I will_."

After a brief scuffle, a moment of digging through Sherlock's dirty laundry, and a punch in the face, I was holding his violin out of the open window with my forefinger and my thumb. He was clawing his way across my back, trying to reach it, but somehow I managed to stretch my arm farther than he could reach.

"If—you—drop—that—John—Watson—" he growled through gritted teeth. "I will—strange—you—in—your—sleep."

"You wouldn't," I responded. And I knew he wouldn't, not because of the typically default answer of he was a sane human being (because he wasn't), but because I knew him, and he needed me.

"And what—makes you—say that?"

"I'm far too useful for you to throw away." I was right.

He stopped trying to reach for the violin and exhaled noisily. "Fine. Fine. You win, doctor. Stab me with your instrument of sadism. I hope your enjoying my utter disappointment."

"Oh, I am," I grinned, handing him his violin.

As long as Sherlock agreed to get blood drawn, I was lenient towards any of his requests. First, he asked to be in the bathtub. I was hesitant to this at first, but then he explained to me that he would not be _taking_ a bath; he would merely be sitting in the bathtub. To this I said yes, even though I did not understand why. Second, he asked if I could play Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3 on the radio, but then I had to explain to him that we didn't own a radio. So I just hummed it, and that would suffice.

He rolled up his sleeve, and tied my belt around his arm so the vein would show. Then I cleaned the area with some rubbing alcohol. I inserted the needle into his vein with considerable ease, and after roughly seven seconds we were done.

"It's over," I told him.

He opened his eyes, for he had been closing them the entire time. "Oh. Is it?"

"Not so bad, was it?"

He blinked a few times, mulling over what just happened. "No. No, it really wasn't."

"You feel stupid now, don't you?"

"A bit. But not really. I never feel stupid."

"No," I sighed, standing up and walking out of the bathroom to put the newly acquired blood sample in the kitchen. "I doubt you ever do."

I had only just placed the sample on the refrigerator counter when I heard an incredibly loud thud.

"Sherlock?" I called. No response. "Sherlock?"

I wandered back to the bathroom to find him collapsed on the linoleum. I had forgotten that they faint sometimes.


	10. And So The Plot Thickens

**Author's note**: I want to warn my readers right now that I am by no means a scientist, nor will I pretend to be. I am not a logic-minded person. Science is my worst subject. It is incredibly likely that most science-related things (i.e., anything related to how the zombie virus works) in this story will be half-assed, nonsensical or poorly researched. However, keep in mind that I _am_ trying my hardest, and if anything doesn't make sense to people far more knowledgeable in such fields than I, just keep in mind that this is a zombie apocalypse and therefore does not make sense in the first place. Thank you, and enjoy.

* * *

"Are you alright?" I asked Sherlock as I carefully helped him up off the bathroom floor. What a stupid question—he had just fainted, of course he wasn't alright. But for some reason I said it anyway.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just, erm, lost my footing." He gingerly sat down on the edge of the tub.

I wasn't going to stroke is ego. "You fainted, Sherlock," I stated bluntly, crouching down beside him. "I see men faint all the time, you _fainted_."

"Faint is such a _delicate_ word," he protested, rubbing his temples. "It makes me feel like a Victorian woman who had her corset tied too tight."

I was tempted to say, "Really? Is fainting the _only_ thing that makes you feel like a Victorian woman with a tight corset?" because at times he could be _such_ an insufferable diva (such as now) but I bit my tongue. "Then you _blacked out_," I said.

"That's better," he said. "Because blacking out implies that you don't entirely lose consciousness. Seeing as I didn't entirely lose consciousness, it's a very fitting alternate phrase."

"Yes. Well, let's get you on to the couch. You should eat a banana."

"I despise bananas," he growled.

"I don't care," I responded, standing up straight. "Do you want my arm?"

Sherlock stopped rubbing his temples and raised his eyebrows. "What would I do with your arm? Eat it?"

"Grab on to it," I said, holding it out. "So we can walk you to the sofa."

"I can walk _myself_ to the sofa, thank you very much. I can walk myself wherever I like. _I'm fine_." He abruptly jumped to his feet and briskly made his way into the living room, but instead of lying on the couch like I advised him, he wandered over to his laptop.

"Okay, then," I sighed. "Don't listen to the doctor. What does he know? It's not like he has a PhD or anything…"

"John, come here," he ordered me. I rolled my eyes and walked to the living room to see him squatting on the desk chair, squinting at his laptop screen. "The internet is still up."

"Really?" I rushed over to his side. "Why didn't you check it before?"

"Didn't feel like it," he answered.

"Go on BBC News, see if they've got anything to say," I told him, nearly typing the address in myself. "There's got to be someone still out there…"

"I'm checking my email," he informed me coldly.

I threw my hands up in the air in frustration and walked away from him. "Why? Why would you check your email? Who could _possibly_ be emailing you at a time like this?"

"Moriarty," he responded.

I gaped at him. "What?"

He wordlessly pointed to the screen.

_FROM: (Anonymous)_

_TO: (Sherlock Holmes)_

_SUBJECT: asfjhajkfh_

_HEY SEXY_

_IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU. WONDERING HOW YOURE DOING IN ALL THIS._

_ISNT IT NICE SEEING THE UNDEAD SHAMBLE AROUND OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW. THEYRE SO CUTE._

_IF YOURE DEAD I'LL CRY. I REALLY WILL._

_BUT YOURE NOT DEAD. I KNOW YOURE NOT BECAUSE SHERLOCK HOLMES IS IMMORTAL HE DOESN'T DIE. BESIDES YOU'RE IMMUNE. THEY WON'T HURT YOU._

_YOUR PET ON THE OTHER HAND I'D WATCH OUT FOR HIM._

_WOULD BE A REAL SHAME IF SOMETHING BAD HAPPENED TO HIM._

_KISSES_

_YOUR BIGGEST FAN_

We both stared at the message much longer than we needed to.

"Well," I said, finally breaking the silence. "This is not good."

"No," Sherlock said, making his hands into a steeple and pressing his fingertips to his lips, as he often does when thinking. "I'm getting an awful feeling that he may be behind this, somehow."

"You think—you think he's done this?" I said, gesturing to the window where the groans and screams of the undead echoed. "How could he have possibly…?"

"I'm not sure. But he obviously has high connections. Wouldn't surprise me if he commissioned the creation of a manmade virus, assuming this is manmade. I'm betting it is, though. How else would he know I'm immune?"

"Well, the internet is up, maybe there are cameras in the flat…" My own suggestion made me shiver. The concept of the maniacal head of an evil corporation watching me shower was not a comforting thought."

"Oh, there are cameras in the flat," Sherlock told me nonchalantly. He began to massage the spot on his arm where I had stuck the needle. "But Mycroft set them up, and his defenses are impenetrable. No, he doesn't have cameras."

The concept of Mycroft watching me shower was somehow even more disturbing. I tried to shake the thought out of my mind.

"He must have known," Sherlock continued. "By finding medical records of mine, researching what illnesses I've had, what places I've been, what medications I've taken, etc, and kept in mind what my body would be able to withstand when creating the virus."

"So… he's made sure that you're alive while nearly everyone else is, erm, 'zombified'?" I said, trying to wrap my head around the concept.

"Precisely. He's testing me."


	11. Murphy's Law

I was still having trouble realizing how incredibly real this all was. Not only was the majority of London (and possibly, the rest of the country… maybe even the world) zombies, but they were zombies because some nutter with a crush decides he wants to target one person and see how he'd react.

It just didn't seem real.

"We have to get out of here," was the first thing Sherlock said. "We can't stay here. Obviously he knows were we live, we can't risk staying here any longer."

"And go out there?" I almost laughed. "It's not like there are tens of hundreds of disgusting, undead creatures that want to eat our brains or anything…"

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed, standing up and snapping his laptop shut. "You made it here all the way from the clinic in record timing. I think you and I are more than capable of handling a few drooling zombies."

"And how are we going to do this?"

"Intellect. Planning. Assault." He began to race around the flat in wild search. "We'll need a map of the city, flashlights, batteries, Iodine, caffeine pills… God, where did I leave my night vision goggles?"

"Wait, wait, hold on!" I grabbed his arm. "What about the blood sample? The one I was going to test?"

"By all means, bring it along!" He sang out, waving his hand. "If we find a lab along the way we can test it."

"Sherlock." I swallowed. "My life depends on that sample. I'm not immune, remember? You'll be fine, running around, getting bitten and all, but I won't. I'd die... or worse." I shuddered just thinking about it; turning the way Mrs. Hudson did. I thought back to her, or rather, the creature's corpse that was still lying on the floor. Not only was it starting to smell, but I had wanted to run tests on her blood as well. No. We couldn't leave. Not yet.

"First of all," Sherlock said. "We don't _know_ whether you're immune or not—"

"I don't want to take any chances!" I burst out.

"Second of all," He continued in a relatively calm manner. "You're not just going to be running around by yourself. I'll be there. Besides, like I said before, you drove halfway across London in a flaming ambulance while being pursued by roughly fifty of them. _I think you'll be alright_."

I sighed. He did have a point. Part of me wanted to spit out "luck", but I knew there was no use arguing with him. Besides, it didn't make sense to just stay at 221B—eventually we'd run out of food and supplies. Eventually Moriarty would show up.

"Alright," I said. "But we need to slow down and think. If we're going to be leaving—" At this, Sherlock jumped in the air gleefully. "—we need to be as careful as possible about what we take and what we leave behind."

He smirked. Sherlock Holmes didn't do _careful _or _slow_.

"Oh, for god's sake," I protested. "Moriarty isn't going to show up at our door _right this second_—"

"Murphy's Law," Sherlock interjected.

"What?"

"Now that you've said that, he's going to show up."

"Oh, shut up." I rolled my eyes and let go of his arm. "Go get your gadgets and your things. Do you have a rucksack?"

"Yes."

"Is it sturdy?"

"Fairly."

"Do you have anything sturdier?"

"No."

"Then it will have to do. Put everything in there." I began to rack my brain, thinking back to what was necessary in Afghanistan. It felt like getting ready to dive into a similar world, in a way. Constant vigilance and careful planning would be needed. "I'll take care of the first aid and the food, so don't bother looking for the Iodine, I've got that handled."

"If you say so." He spun on his heel and began to make his way toward his bedroom.

"Hold on," I stopped him again. "What weapons do you plan on bringing?"

He scratched his head. "Well, we've got your pistol," he mused, checking it off on his finger. "There's a katana lying somewhere under the couch… there's a crowbar in the closet, that's bound to be useful… I feel like I'm forgetting something though…"

I wasn't even going to bother asking why there was a katana under the couch. "Okay. You can gather those together as well."

We then both took off.

I started in my closet. The handful of things I'd kept from my service had been collecting dust in the back. I shrugged my army jacket on over my sweater, laced up the boots, and grabbed the metal canteen, because that was bound to be useful. Thin plastic water bottles, while numerous in our fridge, were far too breakable.

I had a first aid kit that I kept in the bathroom. I had gotten it for free awhile back when I was working at a different hospital, before I enlisted, and hadn't really used it but kept it around just because I thought it would be useful someday (obviously I was right). Everything was still decent, although some of the gauze and insect sting relief pads had been used. It was practically perfect—it had everything from gloves, antiseptics, scissors, tweezers, sun block… it was practically a miniature hospital wrapped up in a bright orange case.

The ideal food would be non perishables, but we didn't really keep beef jerky and hard tack lying around the house. I kept in mind that we'd probably come across a few grocery stores, so I packed in accordance to the food pyramid—saltines, apples, celery, cans of baked beans. It was also lucky that Sherlock almost exclusively lived off of granola bars when he was on a case where it was too long for him to starve himself, so I emptied a box or two into my bag as well.

"Well." Sherlock stepped into the kitchen as I was filling up the canteen. He had a full suck sack over one shoulder. "You don't seem excited or anything."

"I'm—I'm just being prepared, that's all," I assured him.

"Nice jacket."

"I'm just dressing for convenience. Unlike you." He had put on his long coat, the heavy one that went down to his mid-calves. I could just imagine various disastrous scenarios: zombies clinging on to it, catching on fire, getting stuck in elevators and revolving doors… I looked down at his feet. Well, at least he was wearing proper boots.

"Are you sure you want to wear that coat?" I asked him.

"Yes."

"But—"

"I'm wearing it and there's nothing you can say to change my mind."


	12. David Brosnan was a Prick

For the first time in my life I was regretting having settled down in London.

I told myself it was a good place to be because of all the life, the hustle and bustle of friendly faces. I went there for the people.

My original intent seemed all too ironic as Sherlock and I counted to three, then burst through the front door of 221B Baker Street into a mob of the mindless, slobbering undead.

Why couldn't I have settled down in the countryside instead?

A zombie dressed as a police officer was the first to lurch toward us. His fingers were bent in ways that made me cringe and blood dripped down from his nose. From his cracked lips came a sickening moan.

Sherlock smirked. "David Brosnan. Worked on a case with him once."

I sighed and shook my head. "Bloody awful, isn't it? It just… it makes you sad, you know?"

Sherlock's smirk stretched into a wide grin. His eyes crinkled as someone had given him a box of severed hands.

"He was a prick." With that, he promptly sliced off the man's head with a swish of his katana. Jaw still moving, the severed head dropped to the pavement with a thud and began to roll down the street, leaving a dark bloody trail behind it.

As the other creatures began to shamble forth at the sight of their downfallen brethren, I noticed Sherlock's slightly concerning amount of glee. He cackled as he swung the blade through the necks of three different zombies all in one blow.

"Did you see that?" He paused to admire his handiwork before beheading a cabbie. "Oh, John, this is _beautiful_! I never knew what a clean cut these made!"

I hovered behind him, still close to the front door of 221B. The crowbar was clutched in my hands, which quivered in anticipation, but it just didn't feel right to me, charging out like a bloodthirsty Spartan.

My defensive instinct dragged me into battle, however, when I noticed a spare one wandering up to Sherlock (who was too busy kicking an elderly woman zombie on the ground to notice). The zombie, a portly man in a business suit, greedily grabbed in the air as he waddled towards my friend.

I charged towards the mammoth ghoul and bashed it over the head with the crowbar. Despite making quite a loud _thunk_ and leaving a noticeable dent in the zombie's cranium, it didn't seem to do much damage other than make him wobble for a moment and blink stupidly.

I groaned in exasperation before thrusting the crowbar into the zombie's eye socket. It let out a piercing shriek as that same dark, sticky blood began to seep from where I had shoved the crowbar. For good measure, I twisted the tool before yanking it back out. The creature slowly fell backwards, dead.

"My, my," Sherlock grinned as I disgustedly shook off bits off brain from the end of my weapon. "Remind me not to get on your bad side, John."

"Yeah, well," I sighed breathlessly, taking a moment to stare at the corpse at my feet. "I suppose it's a bit too late for that, isn't it? Getting on each other's bad sides? We're all we've got, now."

"I wouldn't dream of battling zombies with anyone else," he responded in a quipped but genuine manner as he idly swung the katana in a way it probably shouldn't swung.

I cocked my head. "Where did you get that thing, anyway?"

He looked up at me to answer, but the light grin slipped off of his face as he stared over his shoulder. "That's a story that may have to wait, John," he told me solemnly.

I didn't even bother turning around. Instead, I swallowed and said, "How many?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, shrugging his shoulders softly as he scanned his eyes over the street behind me. "Thirty? Forty? Those are just the ones I can see, mind you."

I nodded. "Alright. Let's get them."


	13. That Brief Moment

"So," I shouted over the screams of the relentless undead. "Where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock gutted a toothless teenage girl clad in a bloodied uniform. "Marylebone Road. We've got to stop at the hospital to run the tests, don't we?"

"Ah." I wiped sweat from my brow and tried to squint down the street. "So we're still going to do that?"

A limbless, naked torso wriggled on the ground near the tires of a taxi. "Well, I didn't let you draw my blood for nothing, did I?" Sherlock scoffed as he removed my pistol from the jacket of his coat and shot the earthbound zombie through the forehead. "That and, you know. Your _life_ depends on it, I suppose."

My life.

The blood samples clinked together inside my backpack.

My _life_.

The adrenaline that had been generously coursing through my veins began to fade and panic began to choke me like a pair of bitter, enraged hands.

Sherlock turned with a flourish of his jacket and briskly stepped on the limbless corpse's head as he passed, causing it to pop and expel blackened brain matter over his boots.

But for a brief moment it felt as though I couldn't move. My legs had become stubborn weeds planted firmly in the ground. Everything became a slow blur and I became so aware of my surroundings that I inexplicably was not aware of them at all.

This wasn't mere mortality we were toying with. There was an unnatural reanimated state thrown into the mix, an unholy limbo between life and death.

I was a doctor. Bloody hell, I was a _rational_ man.

Zombies defied everything I had been taught. Not just in medical school, but in everything.

There was life and death. No in-between.

When I was younger it had taken me a long time to come to term with the fact that I was working a dangerous job. Eventually I came to accept my own mortality.

But what about this? This wasn't something I was prepared for. This middle-ground abomination.

In that brief moment, in which I felt as though the world had stopped and I couldn't move, I realized just how terrible things would probably get from here on it.

And it started in that one brief moment, when I felt a zombie sink its teeth into my shoulder.


	14. This Chapter Never Actually Happened

I couldn't exactly figure out where I was. It wasn't a place I remembered.

It was some setting long lost in the archives of my mind.

What I did, remember, though, was that it was a waterfront. I couldn't remember how I got there or how to get back but I remember how the thick grass stained my school pants. I remember removing my shoes and socks and dipping my feet in the cool, green water.

Harriet was lying besides me on her back, looking up at the shady trees. Her thick blonde hair was in a braid down her spine and I wondered if it hurt to lie on it.

"So you really want to be a soldier and all, huh?" She was a chewing gum. She blew a bubble.

"I guess so," I said, flexing my toes and waving my feet back in forth in the still water. Soft, wavy plants tickled my heels.

"You could die, though."

"I know." I rubbed my neck. There was a dull, aching throb in it that wouldn't go away and I couldn't remember why.

"Aren't you scared?"

I turned to look over my shoulder, to say, no. I'm not afraid of death. Death is a familiar friend. What I'm afraid of is the unholy in-between.

But then I saw her mottled grey skin, her fevered, bulging eyes. The black syrupy liquid was trickling down from her nose. Her school uniform was soaked in body fluids.

She bared her teeth to show bleeding gum and a hungry tongue.

Everything was bright white.


	15. Coming To

The bright white began to fade into black stars. The ringing in my ears, which I only noticed after coming to, became to slowly dull itself.

My eyelids fluttered. I was staring up at a bright light. The intensity of its shine made me shut my eyes tightly.

As the cloud that was hanging around my head began to disperse, I grew more aware of my surroundings. Cold metal clutched the bare skin of my back. My body felt strangely warm, as if I had just been seated right next to a fireplace for a long time.

There was the dull throb again, right near my neck. I drew in a sharp breath, suddenly remembering what had caused the pain.

I had been bitten by a zombie.

Was I dead?

A slim, cold hand pressed itself against my forehead.

"His fever's coming down," drawled a familiar voice.

Sherlock.

He was still alive.

But… did that mean… so was I?

I snapped my eyes open. His tall, curly-haired silhouette blocked the intense light, making him seem to be a great, looming shadow descending over me. It might've been a frightening sight in any other situation, but I was comforted by it.

"Ah." I couldn't see his face, but I could hear him smile. "Nice to have you with us, Doctor."

The click of heels began to pound in my left ear, and another, smaller silhouette hovered over me.

"Oh, brilliant! Hello, John!" This voice took me a little longer to recognize.

Sherlock connected the wires for me. "Molly, why don't you get John a glass of water?"

"Yes—yes, that's a good idea." Her figure disappeared and the high heels clicked again.

"How are you, then, John?" Sherlock asked.

"I—I can't see you," I said, squinting at the shadow.

"Oh, sorry—I'll fix that." He reached up and adjusted the lighting fixture, turning it to face away from my face.

I blinked away the afterimage and took in my surroundings. I was lying on top of a cold, metal gurney, bare from the waist up. There were other gurneys, and large refrigerators.

It was a hospital morgue, but the familiar set-up and presence of Molly told me that it was the one we often frequented. We had reached our destination.

"Do…" I began hoarsely, looking back at him. His hair was messy, messier than usual. He had cast his favorite coat aside somewhere, now clad in a blood-stained blue shirt. His eyes were bright, but I knew he hadn't gotten any sleep. I cleared my throat. "Do you mind telling me what happened?"

"Well, zombies have taken over the city—"

"No, no," I interrupted, scrunching my eyebrows. "I know that. I was bitten by one. How am I still alive?"

"Poor calculating," he answered with a toothy grin. "On Moriarty's part, of course, not ours."

I gingerly sat up and rubbed my neck; it was bandaged. "So what's the poor calculating, then? Am I immune too?"

"I'll explain in a moment," he told me. "You should probably have something to eat, first, though."

I stopped rubbing my neck and stared at him. "Something feels really weird about all this."

Sherlock's smile faded. "Do you feel sick?"

"No, no. I mean, my neck is killing me, but it's not that. You're being far too caring, Sherlock. It's unsettling. I mean, I'm the doctor. I should be telling you to eat something. On that note, have you eaten? Have you _slept_?"

"Eating, sleeping, good _God_, I have more important things to care about than insignificant bodily functions. I'm fine, John, Molly's about an inch away to hooking me up with an IV full of black coffee. Speaking of which, she should have been back by now. Where is she?"

A shrill scream and the sound of shattering glass answered Sherlock's question.


	16. Seeing Things

Sherlock darted for the door like a diligent greyhound as I struggled to wriggle myself off of the unsteady gurney. My bare feet slapped against the cold linoleum, and as I huffed after Sherlock, I couldn't help but mentally note how it was impossible for me to even wake up from a coma without having to immediately get up and run around afterwards.

There were no breaks with Sherlock Holmes, especially when zombies were at bay.

I jogged down the corridor, trying to ignore the fact that I was slightly lightheaded and instead working to reorganize my thoughts. So I was still alive, I wasn't a zombie. That was good. Sherlock was also still alive; also good. Molly was alive as well, or at least she had. We wouldn't be sure of that till we found her.

I was so caught up in trying to catch up that I managed to slip completely unashamedly in a pool of blood mid-run. The slick surface dragged my foot up over my head and I fell right on my back. It would have been almost funny, had it not been so painful. The slip had happened so quick I hadn't even had time to feel a flutter of fear.

I groaned and sat up gingerly. My back and the seat of pants were smeared with fresh blood. I lifted my palm from the ground and looked at the red imprint. I sniffed it. Yes… it was fresh blood. It wasn't congealed… my stomach turned. This blood had been spilled recently. _Very_ recently.

The fear that hadn't been present when I slipped manifested itself now. This wasn't the black, syrupy zombie blood; this was healthy human blood.

I scrambled to my feet, slipping like a cat on ice.

"SHERLOCK!" I bellowed as I tore down the hallway, leaving telling bloody footprints behind me. "SHERLOCK!"

My heart was beating in sink with my footsteps; loud and echoing and alone. Perhaps it was just waking up that had been in such a panicked mood. I could not pinpoint an exact reason for how completely terrified I was, but at that moment I knew that the worst possible scenario, ever, would be finding him dead, and that scenario seemed entirely too plausible.

"John?" Sherlock's voice made me stop dead in my tracks. I paused and waited for him to speak again, to make sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. "_John_."

I staggered to look behind me. He was poking his head out from a doorway.

"Shout any louder and the entire zombified city of London will know where we're hiding." He smirked. "Come here."

I obliged.

We were inside a small kitchen. Molly, with baggy eyes and a unkempt ponytail, was on her knees, picking up broken shards of glass. On top of the counter, a thin ginger cat was sniffing a pot of coffee.

Sherlock shooed the cat away and picked up the pot.

"Coffee, Molly?" he asked calmly and he rooted through the cabinets for mugs.

"Please," she said. The cat jumped down from the counter and tiptoed over to Molly, where it began to rub itself against her back.

I stood there for a moment, blinking stupidly and shifting on my bare feet.

"So, any particular reason you've come running in here like you've seen the living dead?" Sherlock asked as he poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. "Other than the fact that you've seen the living dead, that is."

"Well—well, Molly screamed, and you ran out," I began, speaking more to myself than to him. "And then—then there was blood _everywhere_, and I thought you'd been killed, so I went looking for you, I was running for ages—" I looked down at my hands. They were clean.

I swiped my hand along my back, checked my pants… bloodless.

"But… but this doesn't make any sense," I said, slapping my hand against my forehead. "I was _covered_ in blood. I slipped in a huge puddle of it. I was…"

I looked up. Sherlock was staring at me with his eyebrows furrowed. Molly, still on the ground, was ignoring the shattered glass and was staring at me as well.

"I _swear_ it happened," I ended weakly.

"John," Sherlock said solemnly, setting the coffee pot down and approaching me curiously. "Molly dropped the glass of water she was making you. I went to see if she was alright. You were right behind me. I walk in, see her cleaning up the glass, and immediately hear you shouting. You couldn't possibly be running for ages if this all happened within a minute. And there was never any blood."

"We're in a morgue, John," Molly said with a slightly unsettling smile, as if she was remembering a joke she had made up in her head. "No zombies that I've seen so far. The dead stay dead down here."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I… I must've hallucinated then. Can't imagine why… may've been the trauma." I nodded, trying to reassure myself. "Yes, that happens sometimes. Hallucinating. Trauma. Things like that." I sighed and slumped down in a plastic chair near the table piled with paperwork.

"Hmm." Sherlock was staring intently at the counter. The cat jumped back up and begged for his attention by rubbing its head against his hand. He shooed it away. "Well," he said, snapping back into the current setting. "At least we know that you're immune as well. You and I must have some sort of common genetic trait that Moriarty didn't manage to catch." He grinned, pleased to know he was ahead of his longtime rival. Sherlock was intensely competitive and an especially sore loser; I knew this because I'd made the mistake of playing Scrabble with him. Normally I would brush this off as a simple quirk, a character flaw even, but Sherlock's sportsmanship had a terrible habit of leaking into his real life. I often felt as though Sherlock saw Moriarty's pursuit as one giant puzzle, the ultimate game for him to test himself and eventually win. The problem, however, was that the winner was not particularly clear at this point. I wouldn't place any bets.

"We should take a blood sample from you, too," Sherlock continued. "To compare yours and mine. And find one from some zombies, of course. Shouldn't be too hard, Molly's got a few locked away."

My head swiveled to Molly. "I thought you said there were no zombies down here.

"No _live_ zombies," she answered, smiling. "Let me fix you another glass of water, John."


End file.
